Growing up, tacos were “Vulture Food” in my house. Unlke the usually sedate eating of meals, in which dishes appeared before us with entree and vegetable and occasional starch neatly arranged, and a bowl of salad off to the side (courtesy of my mom, natch), when it was taco night, all we had were plates empty but for taco shells, and bowls of fixin’s in front of us.
And Dad didn’t get picky — on those nights — about folks grabbing stuff.
“Piranha Food” might have been a more apt name. Hilarity (and yummy taconess) would then ensue.
So tonight? Vulture Food at the Consortium.
Katherine was greatly amused. And the tacos were good, too.
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